Page 86 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

Pietro’s eyes gleam, waiting. “Well, Salvatore?” he coaxes. “Legacy or love? Your family business, or the girl?”

I laugh once. “Tabitha. Obviously.”

37

TABITHA

Oak is supposedto dampen sound. I watched a whole documentary on it once—thanks to Erin—that said that’s why study doors are made of it. To keep panic from bleeding out of boardrooms and into hallways. Whoever designed the Moretti study didn’t test it against Pietro Dumas’s voice.

“Well, Salvatore?” he coaxes. “Legacy or love? Your family business, or the girl?”

My pulse slams so hard I’m sure the men outside can hear it too. I flatten my palms against the grain. Thirty days ago Pietro’s suite felt like the scariest place on earth. Today it’s an old man’s study. Inside my head I scream,“Don’t do it, Sal. Don’t trade your birthright for me.”

Another part of me—the reckless, hopeful part that crawled into his bed—shouts louder,“Pick me anyway.”

I close my eyes, lean. The wood smells faintly of lemon oil and something older, like cigar smoke trapped in the pores. On the other side, silence stretches, wound tight. Then Sal’s voice, low but ringing clear.

“Tabitha. Obviously.”

For a breath, nothing exists except those two words. The world tilts. My knees wobble. I plant one hand on the wall, palm sweaty. Did he really just say that?

Dante’s voice follows, louder, all brass and daredevil certainty. “Seconded. Companies get bought and sold all the time. She’s priceless.”

My hand covers my mouth to stop them from hearing me sob.

Nico adds his vote, soft as turning pages. “It’s unanimous, Dumas. You have no more power over us.”

My vision blurs. Heat floods my chest so suddenly that it’s almost pain. They chose me over billions, over board seats, over a hundred-year legacy. I didn’t know a heart could sprint and break and mend in one throb.

The handle twists. Pietro wrenches the door wide, and I stumble forward, caught mid-eavesdrop, but he catches me and keeps me on my feet. He grins without warmth. “You are worth billions to them. I can see why.”

The words chill and heat me simultaneously. He slides a cold finger under my chin—an oddly tender gesture from a man who traffics in leverage—then steps aside with a magician’s flourish.

Behind him, the brothers stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Sal stone-jawed, Nico poised but pale, Dante still vibrating with adrenaline. Their eyes laser onto me, checking for hurt. My answer is a watery smile.

Pietro pivots toward them. “The question was real.” He shrugs, as though he’d merely tested the ripeness of fruit. “I needed toknow if you’d lied to her. There was but one way to find out. Apologies for undue stress.”

Nico blinks, his voice still seething. “Meaning?”

Pietro shrugs. “Moretti Brands remains yours today. Tomorrow? Who knows. Money attracts predators. I suggest you guard yourselves more carefully in the future. Though I doubt that’s much of a worry, since you’ve found her.” He kisses the air, turns, and stalks down the hall. His guards follow, leaving ozone and oud in their wake.

We follow, ensuring they leave nothing behind. Their engines ignite, and gravel crunches under the tires. Only then does my body remember I have knees. I sway. Sal’s there first, arms around my shoulders. “Are you alright? He didn’t touch you?—”

“No. I um…he told me you three lied. That you’d spun stories to make me compliant, and that it was all just a game to you three…” The words stick in my throat. “So, I kind of lost it, and I attacked him a little bit.”

Dante snorts. “How do you attack someonea little bit?”

“Is that why he looked disheveled when he came out?” Nico asks.

I shrug. “Yeah. I’m not even sure what I did, but I remember…” My hand cramps around something small. A cuff link. “I tried to grab him when he turned to leave the room. Guess I should mail this to him.”

Dante laughs. “Abso-fucking-lutely not. Spoils of war.” He edges past and snatches Pietro’s folder from the hall table—the original contract with ribbon still tied. He hands it to Sal like a surgeon passing a scalpel. “Would you care to do the honors?”

Sal’s nostrils flare. “No more ghosts.” He tears across the seal, rips page after page until clauses flutter to the floor like winter birds. The sound echoes off wood-panel walls. Nico watches, eyes shining behind restraint. Dante curses under his breath. Fragments rain on the rug—authority reduced to litter.

Sal kneels, gathers the shreds into the marble fireplace, strikes a match. The flames leap and consume the month-long contract that bound us. I hug myself, equal parts lightness and fear—because ash can’t be taped back together. Freedom means consequences.

He looks back at me, face glowing volcano orange. “It’s gone. If you want to leave, you can. Whatever you choose, the money’s in your account, and the surgery bills are covered.”

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